


Campanula

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Erestor councils Elrond on the matter of his son.





	Campanula

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sort of the other side of [Bellflower](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11826495). Erestor is Lindir’s father (adar) in this.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

On the rare occasion when Erestor has the night truly to himself, neither delegated to work nor family, he likes to savour it. He strolls about the sprawling household, slower than he does in the day when one duty or another has him ever-rushed. He traces the aged pillars with his fingertips, indulges in the perfume of many wind-swept flowers, and listens to the gentle lilt of quiet moonlit minstrels and the occasional cry of nightingales. There’s a particular balcony in the East Wing that catches his fancy often, and he drifts to it now. His hands curl around the wooden railing, intricately carved for both fashion and comfort. He looks out about his home and basks in its beauty, unencumbered by any other thought. 

But he’s hardly troubled when he’s interrupted by a soft-spoken, “Erestor.” Lord Elrond is always welcome company.

Looking back, Erestor tilts his head in respectful greeting. Dressed still in the crimson robes of this morning, Elrond continues, “I am sorry. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“Yes, you did,” Erestor counters, because he’s sure he looked as lost in the landscape as he felt, and there would’ve been no need to call to him if not to strike up conversation. Elrond dons a minute smile that betrays that truth. 

Without explanation, he comes forward, casually taking a place at Erestor’s side, where he stands tall and proud in the dying light. He looks very much the lord he is: strong, wise, and mildly wizened for it, but Erestor would still consider him something of a close friend. Close enough, at least, to relinquish the night to. For a long moment, Elrond is silent, his gaze gone in the horizon, and Erestor has the sneaking suspicion that it’s deliberate, done only to avoid Erestor’s eyes.

Erestor’s patient and waits anyway, until Elrond finally sighs. He lowers his head, his gaze, and clasps his hands together over the railing. He murmurs under his breath, “I have a... delicate... matter to discuss with you.”

“I am your chief councilor,” Erestor reminds him—surely Erestor has proven time and time again that he can handle the most ‘delicate’ of matters.

But his suspicions are confirmed when Elrond admits, “This is not for that. It is of a... personal... nature...”

Elrond falls silent again. When he takes too long to finish, Erestor asks: “I do not suppose this has anything to do with my son?”

Elrond looks sharply over at him, frowning, and that tells Erestor everything. He dons a wry smile in return, faintly amused, if anything. For a long moment, Elrond seems to fight with himself, and Erestor now thinks he can figure out both sides—Elrond’s intense, obvious attraction to his assistant, and the simultaneous self-deprecation, the surety that such a young elf, though Lindir is well beyond his majority, deserves someone of equal youth. Were Erestor still young himself, he might agree.

But he’s seen the ages come and go, and he knows that some things surpass that. He knows his lord well, and he knows his child better. Lindir’s is an old spirit; it was when he was little and preferred his scrolls to a sword, ballads to limericks, and work to play. He hasn’t changed in that regard, only matured, blossomed, and finally come into his own affections—there were many years where Erestor was certain that his beloved son, so obsessed with only _duty_ , would never come to love anyone at all. But a job near Elrond soon changed that, and Erestor knows that the happiness Lindir bears after a shift with Elrond can be summoned by no other. All he wants, in the end, is for Lindir to be treated well and _happy_.

Elrond can provide both those things. But Elrond wearily shakes his head and admits, “I have tried hard to fight this, you know. It was not my intention to love any again, let alone the young son of one of my dearest friends.”

“But you have,” Erestor sagely provides, “and now you have come to ask my permission for it.” Elrond looks at him strangely, to which Erestor pushes, “You have no need of it. He is grown enough to make his own decisions, and neither his nor yours will affect my love for either of you.”

Again, Elrond is silent. The night passes beyond them. Erestor waits for Elrond’s agreement, for Elrond’s opinion, but those expectations eventually pass. In their wake, Elrond finally murmurs, “I did not come to ask your permission, Erestor. I... meant to have your advice on... ending things.”

For once, Erestor is genuinely surprised. Only many decades of tight discipline keep that from showing on his face. He asks, “Have I misunderstood? ‘Things’ have already begun then...?”

“No, but, before they do...”

“You do not like him?” Erestor tries, equally shocked at that prospect. “You do not think him intelligent, beautiful, talented?”

Elrond actually winces, insisting, “Of course I do, and yes, he is all those things and more—”

“Then there is nothing to end. You have told me you have love for him, and now that you appreciate him, and I know well how much he desires you in return.”

Elrond gives him a puzzled look, stern yet lost, as though _Erestor_ is the one being obtuse, and Elrond can’t imagine why. Erestor merely meets his gaze, holding it fast. Slowly, Elrond mutters, “Erestor... you cannot possibly approve of this. I am _many_ years his senior, and they are not insignificant. They show well on my face, in my energy, and will in the day I choose to sail. And though I will choose that, and I will likely be welcomed into the Undying Lands, I am still only half-Elven. Lindir, on the other hand—”

“Seems to find you quite handsome—he has told me so on many occasions. And he will sail too, I suspect, long before I would have him do so, but I will remind you again that he is a grown elf free to his own choices. And I have no doubt that he would leap at the chance to sail with you whenever you should choose it. As for your blood, he cares as little about it as I do, as all your council and subjects do. Frankly, I am surprised to learn you think otherwise.”

Elrond open his mouth, but it’s clear Erestor’s shattered all his points, because he closes it a moment later. Instead, he watches Erestor as though waiting for the second half of a cruel joke.

“Adar?”

The new voice turns Erestor’s head, and Elrond follows it. Lindir has appeared on the other end of the balcony, still standing half within the corridor. His cheeks are lightly flushed, visible against his pale skin even in the darkness. It indicates that he heard some of their conversation, though Erestor knows it can’t have been much—Lindir wouldn’t have lingered and eavesdropped intentionally. When he looks from Erestor to his lord, it’s clear he has some inkling of the subject of their conversation.

Erestor gives Elrond a final look, transmitting all he can with it, and is gratified to find his lord’s face lightly stained pink for it. To Lindir, Erestor inclines his head, and he murmurs, “Good night, ion nín.”

Then he makes his way past, out into the corridor again, leaving the other two talk.


End file.
